


Sentimentality

by shuwashuwishuwa



Category: Messiah Project - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuwashuwishuwa/pseuds/shuwashuwishuwa
Summary: *screams in cherry blossom petals* WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE HAPPY





	Sentimentality

**Author's Note:**

> *screams in cherry blossom petals* WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE HAPPY

For a moment, the only sound that penetrates the rush of adrenaline in his blood is of his own harsh breathing. If Itsuki closes his eyes long enough, the white noise feels like a blanket, spiriting him away, back to the bare walls and cold, invisible-but-omnipresent eyes of the Church.  
  
He waits for the ringing in his ears to stop sounding like waves throwing themselves against a cliff, for his stomach to stop plummeting when gloved hands start to do a rough once-over along his back, torso, arms. The windows have been smashed and it is chilly inside the small room, but he’s still fully clothed, and if his face is flushed he can always blame it on his being a human heater. It’s _just a job_ , he reminds himself, _it’s routine_ , and even though his insides are coiling with what he thinks is anxiety, Itsuki wills himself to stop shaking; he can’t.  
  
“You never struck me as the ticklish type.” Ariga turns him around, seemingly unsatisfied at the lack of distressed sounds despite the manhandling. “Strip.”  
  
That makes Itsuki freeze. “I’m sorry?” He doesn’t sound too panicked, at least. Maybe a little agitated.  
  
Ariga holds up a bloodied palm. “I can’t find and clean the wound with your jacket on. Your pain receptors aren’t working.”  
  
“Maybe it’s not mine.” Itsuki tries to dislodge the grip on his shoulder to no avail. He swallows another reply; the quieter he is, the faster Ariga can finish this _stupid_ Messiah ritual and then they can get on with the rest of their night. Separately. Not that there’s a lot of space to begin with. Maybe he can sneak out toward the coast, throw pebbles at the water until sunrise.  
  
Ariga squeezes on reflex, and _oh. Shit._ Itsuki winces, face screwing up in pain.  
  
“Or maybe it’s shock,” Ariga answers, matter-of-factly. He starts undoing the coat’s zipper, stopping and letting go when Itsuki can’t hold back a cry. “Seems to be wearing off, though. Jacket. Now.”  
  
Undressing slowly, Itsuki flinches when the cool night air bites into his skin. Right then, his body decides to turn the sensory dial up to twelve, and the fresh wave of pain nauseates him so much he has to lean on the edge of the bedside table for balance.  
  
“Itsuki?” is the last thing he hears, Ariga’s voice sounding uncharacteristically soft, before he blacks out.  
  
\--  
  
He wakes up hours later, propped up against the headboard, blanket up to his waist. His wound is dressed, his clothes changed. If nothing else, Itsuki’s Messiah is still the most efficient person he knows.  
  
He reaches for the water by the bedside table, but they must not have had enough painkillers for Ariga to use while patching him up because there’s a sharp twinge on his shoulder, and then the metal cup clangs as it drops to the floor.  
  
Ariga pretends not to notice. Itsuki huffs, injury throbbing unpleasantly. He looks pathetic. It’s freezing outside and this cabin is inhabitable. This was not how he wanted his long-awaited reunion with Ariga to happen, and he’s _thirsty_.  
  
“Eight,” Ariga says, breaking the stuffy silence, like they are in the middle of a conversation. His eyes don’t leave the computer screen, long fingers steadily typing away.  
  
Itsuki doesn’t know what to make of it, but he grasps at the loose string anyway. He stretches on the bed. Slowly. “Eight what?” There. Conversation engaged.  
  
The clacking of keys stops. “Inches,” Ariga breathes out, twisting in his seat to look at Itsuki’s bandages, lips in a thin line.  
  
In their years together, Ariga has had to sew him up more times than they both care to think about, but—  
  
“I’m not apologizing,” Itsuki manages to answer, voice scratchy and tired.  
  
It was something they had agreed on back then; he had fully committed to making sure Ariga would get the peaceful world that he wanted so much, and if Itsuki were to get bruised and scraped along the way, well.  
  
Ariga would just have to take it as collateral damage, or maybe some kind of twisted proof of how Itsuki felt about fulfilling his dream—and about him.  
  
_Ah, feelings_. Itsuki had gotten rid of his masks and candies and indifference a lifetime ago. Now every single thing he felt about Ariga— _about Ryo_ —was inked on his skin, in the scars and bullet wounds he wore oh-so-proudly.  
  
Whatever future awaited them after Sakura, Itsuki’s feelings were something they both had already known for a long time anyway.  
  
Ariga doesn’t answer, glare drilling holes into the bedspread instead. His jaw is clenched tight, but his anger has never involved shouting, and Itsuki’s injured, so at least there isn’t going to be anyone forced against the wall tonight. Yet.  
  
“Ryo. Say something.”  
  
“You are not someone dispensable,” Ariga finally _looks_ at him, and Itsuki feels like he’s on fire.  
  
“And?”  
  
“This,” Ariga gestures at the air between them, in complete surrender. “Can’t keep happening. You. I. I can’t.”  
  
What a pair they make, clumsy yet stubborn, both inept in the way of words.  
  
Itsuki swallows, then wills his entire body to unglue itself from the bed and scoot over. He can’t keep his eyes open for much longer, but that’s likely the blood loss. “Come to bed, asshole. I have to leave by tomorrow.”  
  
“In a few hours,” Ariga corrects him, standing up and padding over to where Itsuki—rumpled from discomfort and interrupted rest—is. The mattress is too small for two grown men to squeeze into, but neither of them will succumb to sleep that easily anyway. Exhaustion, perhaps.  
  
“Fine,” Itsuki finally closes his eyes, careful not to put pressure on his wound when he leans back, into Ariga’s embrace. “Always have to have the last word, ugh.”  
  
Ariga inhales, gunpowder and saccharine and the lingering hints of gore filling his lungs. How useless it was, to wish that time would stop.  
  
But Itsuki is here now. And he lives for Ariga. Every measured breath, every heartbeat, every drop of blood.  
  
Careful but deliberate, Ariga tightens his hold on his anchor to this world. He closes his eyes, fitful slumber claiming him as well. Morning will come for them soon enough.


End file.
